A Tale of Two Detectives
by Ashen Tears
Summary: When a British cabinet official is murdered in Santa Barbara, the SBPD know who to turn to. But the British police have jurisdiction in this matter as well - and they're sending in their very best. What happens when fake psychic meets consulting detective and pharmaceutical salesman meets army veteran? Set after 'Nip and Suck It' (Psych), and 'The Hounds of Baskerville' (Sherlock).
1. Prologue

July 22nd, 2013. 11 a.m. Santa Barbara Municipal Airport. Thomas Baker, the British Secretary of State for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs has just landed after a short connecting flight from Los Angeles, here to meet with the mayor and finalize a new environmental pact regarding the Los Padres National Forest. A sizable posse of reporters, armed to the teeth with large microphones and even larger cameras, as well as a few curious passers-by with smartphones, crowd the arrivals area of the terminal. This is slated to be one of the most high-profile international talks the city has seen in years, and the media is doing nothing to tame the hype.

As the engines wind down and the plane gradually slows to a halt, the Secretary unfastens his seatbelt and makes his way towards the exit, a small band of black-suited bodyguards closes around him, eyes hidden behind reflective sunglasses. He himself is dressed in a much more inconspicuous plaid shirt and pair of blue jeans. As he steps into the sun, blinking as his eyes adjust to the bright Californian sunlight, and makes his way towards a nondescript red SUV parked by the curb, a relentless barrage of questions is the only thing he hears.

"Mr. Baker, can you confirm the contents of – "

" – rumors regarding the pact – "

" – expanding the boundaries of – "

" – any truth to these tidings?"

As he reaches the car, he turns around, raising one hand. "Ladies and gentlemen," he says, emanating charisma from the very beginning, "the mayor and I have yet to finalize anything regarding this agreement. We are merely trying to do what is best for this city and its natural environment."

Reporters continue to shout out questions, none yielding to each other and only furthering the chaos. A plain-clothed detective gets out of the driver's side door and opens the back door for the Secretary.

"Welcome to Santa Barbara, Mr. Baker."

The trip from the airport to the hotel is expected to take the Secretary and his bodyguards around 20 minutes. When he hasn't turned up after 45, the SBPD is notified and a citywide manhunt is initiated. It's Officer Buzz McNab who finds them, tucked away in a small alley a few miles from the airport. The red SUV now has a crumpled front end, blown-out tires and a lattice of cracks spiderwebbing across the windshield. McNab's eyes are instantly drawn to the man in the back seat, wearing a plaid shirt and a pair of blue jeans, with a bloody hole in the center of his forehead and a look of surprise still etched across his face.


	2. Prologue the Second

**A/N: I'm still laying the scene for John and Sherlock to meet Shawn and Gus, so not much actually HAPPENS in this chapter. Think of it as an extension of the prologue. Things will actually happen in the next chapter, don't worry!**

London. 8 p.m.

As Dr. John Watson pays the cabbie and lets himself into 221B Baker Street, he notices something rather unusual. Loud thumps are coming from the flat upstairs. Now, what any other inhabitant of Baker Street might consider unusual is daily fare for Sherlock Holmes's roommate, so John isn't unduly worried by the ruckus. He does, however, ascend the narrow stairs with more caution than usual, one hand resting on his gun.

He enters the main room of the apartment, closing the door behind him, then stops in his tracks.

_Either a printing press just exploded_, he reasons, with a quiet groan, _or Sherlock is not happy._

Picking his way through the papers strewn on the floor, he makes for the desk, which is groaning under the weight of a small mountain of newspapers. The only parts visible of the man sitting behind it are his neat dark blue pants and immaculately polished shoes, reclining on a black office chair. As he watches, another is discarded from behind the pile, barely missing Mrs. Hudson's antique Chinese vase on the mantelpiece, followed by a low mutter of annoyance.

"Sherlock?"

The chair rolls back, the pant legs straighten, and the shoes walk around to the edge of the desk, revealing the rest of the man they belong to.

In stark contrast to the lower half, his normally smoothly ironed suit is crumpled, the red tie askew, dark hair unkempt, with a familiar expression of simultaneous frustration and deep concentration on his face.

"Ah, John, good to see you," Sherlock says, but his mind is obviously elsewhere. "Did you enjoy your dinner?"

"Very much, thanks," John replies, "but I've been going out for dinner almost every day for the last two weeks, and you never bothered to ask me before now." Sherlock raises an eyebrow, but remains silent. "What is it you need from me?"

"Wrong on two counts, John," Sherlock says, beginning to pace the room. "One: I did ask you about the Thai restaurant you went to on Friday."

"Only because you were planning to go after hearing what I thought of it."

"Fair enough," he concedes. "The food was excellent, by the way. Secondly," he continues, "I don't actually need anything from you." Now it's John's turn to look skeptical. "Unless you've got a murder mystery tucked away in your head, saved for a rainy day."

"So that's what it's about, is it?" John sighs. "You're bored. Again."

"Well, what's a man like me to do when he can't exercise his gray cells with a good old-fashioned crime?" Sherlock ceases his pacing, grabbing a pile of rejected newspapers off the floor and holding them up for John to see. "Nothing in the Sun, the Daily Mail, the Daily Mirror, Metro, the Daily Telegraph. I tried some foreign ones too – the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, the Australian Times, the Sydney Morning Herald. Nothing." He pulls out one from the stack and hands it to John. "I even tried Le Monde. French, took me about an hour to get through. There's nothing in there either."

John had learned some French in college, and his eye is drawn to one headline in particular. "Hang on, there's something in here about the murder of a businessman in Bordeaux – "

"It was the wife," Sherlock replies without missing a beat. "I called the police already. I'd have liked to go myself, but I couldn't get tickets."

_Sometimes_, John thinks, _this man is just too smart for his own good._

Aloud, he says, "Have you tried – "

Before he can finish his statement, Sherlock's phone vibrates gently, shaking a few newspapers loose as it rattles the desk. Sherlock picks it up, accepts the call and puts it to his ear. "Sherlock Holmes."

He's quiet for a minute, as he listens to whoever's on the other end of the line. John strains to catch a few words, but the volume is too low – all he hears is an incoherent mumble.

"We'll take it," Sherlock says abruptly, hanging up and straightening his tie.

"Well – uh, who was that?" John asks.

"Lestrade. He has a case for us." A rare smile begins to spread across Sherlock's face. "How do you feel about a trip to the beach?"


	3. The Gingerbread Man

Around the same time, nearly five and a half thousand miles away, a very different phone rings on a very different desk, and is picked up by a very different hand.

"Hello," says Shawn Spencer, in a voice very different from his usual one. "You've reached the Psych office. We are currently unavailable to take your call, probably because we're off on a Ghostbusters mission. Please contact Larry the Cable Guy for further assistance."

He pauses for a second. "Lassie! Long time no see. How's – "

Another pause. The voice on the other end of the line is not very happy – less happy than usual, anyway, which makes Detective Lassiter sound about as tolerant of Shawn as he would of a dog who had an accident all over his best suit.

Shawn's exuberant smile dims a little as the full implications of what has happened hit him. This alone makes his best friend and partner Gus curious, and a little worried – Shawn never takes anything seriously, police cases least of all. _If he's worried…well, then, we all should be._

"We'll be right there." All traces of a smile gone, he puts the phone down and kicks back in the chair behind the desk, deep in thought.

"Shawn?" Gus asks cautiously. "Is something wrong?"

He shakes his head once, still brooding on whatever Lassiter has told him.

"What was that call about?"

He doesn't look up for a minute, but when he does, a trace of the mischievous grin is flitting about his face once more. "Gus," he says, now putting on a grossly exaggerated Southern accent, "I think we may have ourselves a case."

For once, Gus doesn't protest, grabbing his coat from the stand by the door. "Where?"

"Couple of miles from the airport," Shawn replies, grabbing a pair of red sneakers and slipping them over his mismatched socks. "Not far from that little donut shop; maybe we could grab a dozen or five."

"You know that's right."

About half an hour later, a blue Toyota Echo pulls up near a small alley, accidentally knocking over a few orange traffic cones. Shawn and Gus emerge, shirts and mouths liberally dusted with powdered sugar, hop the yellow crime scene tape, and weave between police cars, making their way towards the remains of the Secretary's car. Two people are waiting for them there, one considerably less happy to see them then the other.

"Let me warn you right now, Spencer," detective Carlton Lassiter warns Shawn. "You deviate from the case at all, make any smart-ass remarks or otherwise make yourself a nuisance, we can lock you up for a few nights for obstructing the law."

"I love you too, Lassie," he replies, unperturbed, winking at the second detective. Juliet smiles back at him, but it's forced. On closer inspection, her forehead is creased and eyes worried.

"Who we have here is Mr. Thomas Baker," Lassiter continues, ignoring Shawn. "British Secretary of State for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs – "

" – bit of a mouthful there," Gus whispers to Shawn. "I wonder if that's how he introduced himself."

" – who arrived in Santa Barbara this morning to talk to the mayor about a new environmental policy. He got into this car at the airport, along with a few bodyguards and a driver personally selected by the mayor, and was killed en route, after less than ten minutes in the car. Every man in the car was shot in the head. We don't have the ballistics report yet, but we're assuming some sort of sniper weapon."

Shawn walks around the car, looking at it intently from all angles to see if he can pick up any clues. One thing immediately strikes him as odd. The whole interior of the car is coated in a fine layer of dust and glass shards. All except for a briefcase in the back seat by the Secretary's feet, which is curiously clean.

"I'm getting something!" he says suddenly. "Briefing…briefs…briefs?"

"Dear God, now we have to search his underwear?" Lassiter says disgustedly. "Just when I thought working with him could get no worse…"

"…brier…briefcase!" Shawn exclaims, startling everyone. "Check the briefcase!"

Lassiter strides towards the car, shoving Shawn aside unceremoniously and pulling the back door of the car open. He lifts the briefcase out carefully, shutting the door behind him, and opens the case.

Expecting a sheaf of legal documents to fall out, everyone is surprised when a small red box falls to the ground. Shawn picks it up and opens it. All it contains are an innocently smiling man-shaped cookie and a note, printed on elegant white paper with a golden border.

Catch me if you can.

GM

"Is it just me, or is he calling himself the Gingerbread Man?" Gus asks incredulously.

Shawn nods slowly, still looking at the cookie, whose grin now seems to mock him. "Ladies and gentlemen," he says, "we have a nursery rhyme killer on the loose."

As Shawn and Gus are thanked (somewhat reluctantly, it must be said) by Lassiter and are dismissed from the scene, Juliet pulls Shawn aside.

"Shawn, whoever this guy is, he's dangerous," she says, looking worried. "Not only did he take out five men in a moving vehicle with a sniper rifle, he has the nerve to leave a provocative note at the scene of the murder. He's good enough to believe that he will never be caught."

"Jules, we've handled so many murder cases together," Shawn says, trying to comfort her. "You, me and Gus. And Lassie," he adds, as an afterthought. "I guess he helped."

"Shawn, don't joke about this," she says. "The thing is, this is like Yin and Yang all over again. You nearly died, Shawn, and you nearly lost everyone you cared about when you went up against them. I know you can crack this case, just like you always do." She takes a deep breath, and Shawn is shocked to see her eyes glistening with tears. "But how much are you going to lose before you win?"

Wordlessly, Shawn wraps his arms around her. She's scared – for herself and for him. And he doesn't blame her – because although he would never admit it, he's scared too. And he doesn't know if he can see this through.

**A/N: I know, I promised to bring Sherlock in. The trouble is, he's currently on a plane somewhere over the Atlantic at the moment. As smart as he is, I don't think he's invented faster-than-light travel. Probably. He should have landed by the next chapter. As always, please review! I hope you're enjoying the story.**


	4. Friction and Pineapples

**A/N: Sorry I'm taking a while to update, I'm on vacation at the moment. Plus I had writer's block for a few days. Thanks to all my wonderful readers for the reviews, favs, cookies and china dolls.**

No one is surprised to see Shawn and Gus turn up at the SBPD headquarters the next morning, drawn by a new, intriguing case (or maybe Chief Vick's phone call, which really sounded more like an order than a request). However, as they step into the chief's office, there are two unfamiliar visitors occupying their usual spot.

The taller of the pair is at least six feet tall, with black hair and very pale skin, wearing a neat black suit, a blue tie and a slight haughty smile. _Looks like someone considers himself above the rest of _us, Shawn observes. As he steps into the room, the man's eyes immediately flicker over to him, giving him a clinical once over before switching, his expression emotionless, to Gus. _Very observant. And quick about it too. But he seems more machine then man._

There are calluses on his left hand and a nearly imperceptible smudge of black under his chin. _Plays a stringed instrument, probably violin. _Although not intimidated by the newcomer, Shawn immediately feels a strong sense of déjà vu.

His companion is quite a bit shorter and less formal, with a worn jacket over a white button-down and a pair of jeans. He seems friendlier, but his face is prematurely lined, and the look in his eyes suggest that they have seen a lot in their time. He has a slight tan, and seems to be leaning on one leg more than the other. _Police?_ Shawn thinks. _Nope. Army. Keeps his hand near his jacket pocket, and his eyes keep darting to the windows and doors. Fought abroad?_

Shawn turns to the chief. "Um, Chief, who exactly are these two?"

She opens her mouth to respond, but the taller man cuts him off. "Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective from London. This is my friend and partner, Dr. John Watson." Smiling, John holds out his hand, and Shawn and Gus shake it in turn. Shawn then offers his hand to Sherlock. "Nice to meet you, I'm – "

" – Shawn Spencer," Sherlock interrupts, ignoring Shawn's attempt at a handshake, "psychic detective." He says the word 'psychic' with a certain amount of distaste. _A skeptic_, Shawn notes. "And his partner, Burton Guster. You've built quite a reputation for yourselves, gentlemen. A hundred cases within seven years is impressive, but forgive me if I don't buy the whole 'psychic' charade."

Shawn withdraws his hand, curling his fingers loosely into a fist. "Charade, huh? Let's see what I can pull up on the two of you." Putting one hand to his temple in a familiar gesture, he closes his eyes for a few seconds, before opening them and looking straight at Sherlock.

"The spirits tell me that you consider yourself very intelligent. You don't like social interaction very much, and you play the…guitar? No, violin." He turns to John. "Army veteran, stationed in a foreign country. Invalided home, but suffering from stress. Nightmares?" John winces slightly, but says nothing.

"Elementary and juvenile," Sherlock says dismissively. "A sixth grader could have told me as much. Now, if you want to see how the professionals do it." John's expression immediately goes from one of mild interest to a well-worn 'here-we-go-again' face.

"You are fascinated with pop culture and know it inside out," Sherlock begins, speaking quickly in a low monotone. "Your father is a police officer, retired and recently returned to the force. By the same token, he got you interested in police work, you never would have ended up here otherwise."

Shawn opens his mouth, presumably about to deliver a witty retort at Sherlock's expense, but is cut off yet again.

"…and you have a curious affinity for…pineapples?" A brief look of contempt flits across his face, but it vanishes like a drop of water on the desert sand. By the door, Lassiter looks as if Christmas has come early. Sherlock turns to the chief. "When do you need us at the crime scene?"

"Two hours," she replies, looking unsure as to whether she should be impressed or offended. "Make yourselves at home until then."

As Sherlock moves toward the door, Lassiter holds out his hand in greeting to Sherlock. "It's a pleasure to – "

"Thank you," Sherlock interrupts, sliding his overcoat off and tossing it carelessly in the detective's direction. "Could you leave that near the door for me? And while you're at it, I wouldn't mind some tea. Earl Grey, no sugar." He walks out of the office and settles himself behind Buzz's desk, leaving a baffled head detective, a confused chief and a very offended fake psychic in his wake.


	5. Crime Scene Revisited

**A/N: Sorry for the delay in getting the new chapter up – I've been at summer camp for five days after getting back from vacation. Also, my birthday was last week, so I put something special in here! Thanks for the reviews and support!**

Whether by design or accident, Chief Vick has Sherlock and John ride in a separate cruiser from Shawn, Gus, Lassiter and Juliet. This suits Lassiter just fine.

"I mean, who the hell does this guy think he is?" he says, venting his emotions at the only one in the car who actually cares. "He waltzes in with his Cockney accent, swaggering around like he owns the place, and mistakes me for a junior officer." Buzz, who is driving the car, although offended, wisely keeps his mouth shut.

"Frankly, Carlton, I think he's just trying to get on your nerves," Juliet says, although she looks stressed as well. "Don't let him get to you."

"Get to me? As if!"

Soon enough, the two cars have pulled up to the crime scene. The crime scene tape is untouched, but the crowd seen milling about is now gone. The now familiar red SUV is in the same position, and it is with trepidation that the foursome approach it. John has the wearied look of someone who's seen this too many times. However, Sherlock is wearing the gleeful expression of a kid in a candy store. Or Shawn at a pineapple convention. Whichever is happier.

"You said there was a note, may I see it?" Lassiter pulls it out and hands it over with an expression similar to the one he had worn when Shawn put lemon juice in his coffee. But that's another story.

The note's cryptic message is the same, but the little man-shaped cookie is now missing half of his right leg. Shawn winces.

"Ah, well, crime scene, no breakfast. This whole thing takes a lot out of me," he says apologetically, ignoring Juliet's look of exasperation and Lassiter's more hostile glare. Sherlock does not react, though, absorbed in the note. He skims over it two or three times, then hands it back carelessly. "And the bodies?"

Walking over to the car, Sherlock begins an inspection of the car in much the same way Shawn did the previous day, although more methodically. Once he's finished, he takes a closer look at the bodies. Meanwhile, Shawn is idly glancing at the wreck when he notices something – something he should have noticed as soon as he saw it, but for some reason slipped past his attention.

"Gus," he mutters. "They were shot from the front in the head. So why were they all slumped forward yesterday?"

Gus's eyes widen in sudden understanding, but Shawn doesn't wait for an answer. "I'm getting something!"

All the others turn to him expectantly. All but Sherlock, who clears his throat in an attempt to get a word in. Shawn's tired of his superior attitude, though, and barges on.

"None of these men were killed by the bullets. It was something else that did it."

Unsurprisingly, this statement draws a wide variety of looks ranging from astonished to skeptical (guess who).

"They –"

"As you can see," Sherlock cuts him off, "the impact of the bullets should have knocked them backward. However, they are all leaning forward. Now, the only reason this would happen is if they were already in that position when the bullets hit them, because the force and angle would be insufficient to push them back."

"I'm sorry," Shawn says, "you lost me at –"

"This means," Sherlock goes on, interrupting yet again, "that they were dead before they were shot." He looks around. "Ladies and gentlemen, what we're dealing with here is not a sniper, but possibly someone even more dangerous. Someone who managed so easily to send you off on the wrong track." He smirks slightly. "Fortunately, I arrived in time to save you the embarrassment."

"Well, if you're so smart, how were they killed?" Shawn asks defiantly.

"Reddish tinge to the skin, especially around the face, and a faint smell of almonds," Sherlock says. "I'll need to run some tests to confirm it, but I am fairly sure that the cause of death was cyanide poisoning.

"I'm no coroner," John adds, "but I'd be inclined to agree."

"Fine," Lassiter interjects. "Get the bodies down to the morgue and have Woody look at them. O'Hara and I are heading back to the station."

Shawn watches them go, but is distracted when his phone buzzes quietly in his pocket. Pulling it out, he sees a notification with a calendar icon on his lock screen. _Madeleine Spencer's birthday._ Cursing under his breath, he selects a number from the contacts screen and waits. She picks up midway through the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Mom. Happy birthday."

"Thanks, Shawn. How are you?"

"Hmm? Oh, fine."

A rush of static comes through. "You don't sound fine. Are you on a case?"

"Yeah," says Shawn, trying to make light of the situation. "You know, crazy murderer on the loose, foreign politician dead, just another day on the job."

"Don't do this with me. We both know that the better you make it sound, the worse it is."

"Guilty as charged."

More static. "I don't want to keep saying this, Shawn, but you have to be careful. I don't know the details, but this doesn't sound like 'just another case' to me."

It's Shawn's turn to sigh. "I know, Mom, but really, don't worry. I'm more in danger of being shown up by a British prick than being killed."

"Don't joke about that, Shawn," she says warningly. "But it does sound like you have a lot on your mind. Just remember that I'm here if you need me."

She hangs up before Shawn can reply.

"Thanks," he whispers to the silent phone, before replacing it in his pocket.

"Who was that?" a voice behind him asks. Shawn groans inwardly.

"None of your business," he replies curtly.

"Father?" Sherlock presses. "Mother, more likely. I suppose she was worried about you." There's something odd about the tone of his voice, something lurking under the usual contempt, but Shawn is too preoccupied to notice.

"Listen, buddy," Shawn says heatedly. "You're stealing the show on this case. Fine. You're ruining my reputation and possibly even my career. Fine. But I can look after myself. Yes, I like video games and 80s TV shows that no one else cares about and pineapples. Yes, I never really grew out of being a kid. And yes – yes, she was worried about me. But better that than being like you.

"Look at yourself! You're a machine. You have all of one friend in the world. You never were an innocent, carefree child. You have no way to relate to other people. And just because your own mother doesn't care enough to call you doesn't mean that other people can't have decent relationships with their family!"

"She doesn't," Sherlock replies shortly. "She never did. My parents left my brother and I to an orphanage when I was two."

Pulling his coat a little tighter around himself, he says, "I will see you at the station," and walks away.

Shawn looks after him long after he is out of sight, finally realizing what the strange tone in Sherlock's voice was. It wasn't contempt or anger or rebuke.

It was longing.


End file.
